Title: No Exit
Author: Claire Doyle
Rating: R (language)
Category: KrycekAngst
Summary: A glimpse into a dark angel's innermost thoughts
Disclaimer: Fox owns so much, why do they have to own Krycek too? I
know, I'll pass full ownership over to Nicholas Lea, the one man who
can effectively bring the character to life.
Fox and 1013 have him under contract, but this still makes me feel better.
Dedication: For all the coffee bean pickers of the world whose labor is
exploited. And for people who can find the good in everybody, or at least
the humanity
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Forever and forever. I travel in the darkness, trying to forget my past,
my present, and my inevitable future. Why don't I give up now, and be done
with it all?
It's not because I have too much to live for. I have less to live for than
someone who's suicidal believes they have. And it's not out of some warped
sense of honor and glory. I've been in the dirt too long to have any
delusions of grandeur. No, it's just habit that keeps me going. I've run
for so long that I don't know how to stop.
It doesn't help that everyone on this side of hell is trying to kill me.
Natural instinct won't let me go without a fight, and while my fighting
entails running and hiding, it's kept me alive. And paranoid. And people
call Mulder paranoid.
Funny that I would think of him at this moment. We might as well have
been twins separated at birth. The man and I have so much in common that
we would probably be best friends if we weren't on 'other sides of the
law,' so to speak, trying to kick the shit out of each other.
I have to wonder what would have happened if I hadn't chosen the path
that I chose, and I went the straight and narrow, fighting on the side
of righteousness. I probably would have turned out like Mulder, obsessed
with finding a truth which, frankly, I don't believe exists. That may not
have been the worst way to go. Look at Mulder, I mean, at least he got
Scully. I know that they aren't doing it, but they love each other, and
to be able to give that kind of commitment to one another. . .I'm jealous.
Or, I might have become just another Joe Fed, making a living, having a
family, and retiring when I'm supposed to so that I fit the mold that
society created. Just thinking about turning out like that one makes me
sick. Then I probably would become suicidal, strictly due to boredom.
But this life? I don't know if I would trade it in for another model.
It's had its moments; the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rushing
through my body when I'm the one being pursued, and I know that it's
either him or me. But I've had no chance to do some things, to experience
feelings like love, which is not found in the arms of a hooker, no
matter how good in bed. I've tried to prove that fact wrong, many times.
I just got the card that said: 'You will be hunted like a dog for the
rest of your natural life, because you will be little better than scum,
and no woman will love you for who you are, because they will never be
able to see beyond what you've done, you piece of shit.' In other words,
I was dealt the Loser card.
I look at myself in the mirror in my cheap dingy hotel room. I hate to
do this, because inevitably, I look at the stump where my arm used to be,
and I get the urge to smash my hand into the piece of glass that reveals
my fate. Sometimes I do, and I watch my hand bleed afterward, glad of the
pain, glad that I can at least feel something.
Pain is a small substitute, I know, but what the hell? Don't I deserve
to be punished? If there's a God, which I'm beginning to doubt, then I'm
going to burn for eternity.
Not like I don't have a lot of practice being poked in the ass with pitchforks
already. Of course I do get the moments of self-pity, where just the thought
of the blood that's spilled on my hands from dozens of people, blood that I
caused to spill, makes me double over and vomit into the nearest toilet, until
there's nothing left of me but a constant squeezing at my guts and tears
streaming down my face.
Why do you think that I'm incapable of crying? It's all that shit that
you've been fed by Mulder, isn't it? Isn't it? He cries, and it shows that
he's sensitive, and has the balls to show it. But Alex Krycek, son of a
bitch, devil for hire, cold blooded murderer, was denied tear ducts at birth.
Bull. I spent so much of my early life crying that all of my memories
are shrouded in a watery haze. My fucking parents. . .well you can imagine
what happened when there was a fight in my house and my mom got a piece of
wire in her hands. . .or my dad got out the belt. . .or we were at the top
of stairs, and I would wake up an hour later at the bottom with dried blood
on my body, my flesh burning. . . . But that counts for nothing, right?
Because I'm evil, and I deserved whatever the hell I got. I guess he's right,
I guess you're all right, because he's the hero, and you're the righteous ones.
For you, pain is the path to heroism, and handling it the "correct" way
makes you strong and brave and good. Mishandling your pain makes you a
sad, poor, pathetic creature that should be put out of its misery as soon as
possible.
If that's the law of the land, then I should be long gone, buried in an
unmarked grave. But who the hell are you to tell me that I'm wrong for acting
like this? At what point in your lives did you stop and help me? You just
walked by, crying for my blood, hoping that I would end up on the wrong side
of a gun. Actually, you've envisioned worse, haven't you? Having my innards
slowly eviscerated because of all of the pain that I've caused to your
tall, dark and brooding Odysseus. Mulder shoots me, he's a god. I shoot him,
I'm the devil, a rat, a bastard. I only wish I could live up to the titles
I've been given.
There's not a chance in hell that I'm going to change what I'm doing.
You wouldn't ask Mulder to, would you? Alright then, don't expect me to,
either. I'm doing what I feel is right. My vision just has more blood attached
to it. Blood, warm and liquid, flowing, bringing life to its vessel, until it
runs out of them in a pool, onto my hands. . .my hands. . .oh, God, my dirty,
filthy hands.
NO!!! You fucking bastards, leave me alone! You're not going to do this to me,
you're not going to have me redeem myself in your eyes by begging for forgiveness,
and turning myself in, a sign of honor, so I can rot in a jail cell until I'm
strapped to a chair and blasted out of existence. I don't give a damn how hard
this life is to live. I've lived it this long, and it's a hell of a lot better
than sitting in a hole waiting for death. Get out now. Get out before I decide
that I'm done talking, and add your blood to my memories. I won't regret it until
it's far too late. Leave now, leave me to myself. I can handle anything that comes
along. You'll see. Someday, you'll all see that the blood spilled was not in vain.
At least I hope to hell not.